


whose heart yearns for light

by the_ragnarok



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - BDSM, Canon-Typical Violence, Corporal Punishment, Discipline, Electricity, F/M, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Overstimulation, Paddling, Sounding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-05
Updated: 2016-03-05
Packaged: 2018-05-24 22:14:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6168668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/the_ragnarok
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If Harold doesn't want to handle John's discipline, that's fine. John can go to Public Enforcement and deal with it himself.</p><p>(It isn't fine.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	whose heart yearns for light

**Author's Note:**

> I shamelessly stole the Public Enforcement thing from Code16, who also held my hand through writing and beta'd the end result. Additional thanks to Morin and violentdaylight for their enthusiastic support <333
> 
> The John/OCs is kink only, no sex or romance.

Before leaving the scene of his first, tense meeting with Finch since agreeing to work the numbers, John pauses. "One last thing. How are we handling discipline?"

That gets Finch to look up from his keyboard, blinking owlishly at John. "Oh?"

"Discipline," John repeats, a little slowly. He shouldn't be talking to Finch like that - hell, probably shouldn't have broached the subject at all: it's just that not asking has slightly more chances of biting John on the ass than asking does. "You know, if I disobey."

Finch rapidly blinks. "If you fail to fulfill your mission to the best of your ability," he says, "I will have to discontinue your employment."

John just barely refrains from rolling his eyes. "I'm not talking about that." When Finch keeps looking infuriatingly confused, John adds, "I'm talking stuff like talking back. You do remember I'm a sub?"

That gets a sharp look on Finch's face, gets John wondering if ending that sentence with a practical demonstration of back talk was a good idea after all. "Of course I do," Finch says. "However, I care little for protocol." He narrows his eyes at John. "I will not enforce any discipline over you: honestly, I don't see that it's any of my business."

At that point, still not long removed from Kara and her idea of discipline, John is inclined to take Harold's view with gratitude.

~~

A few months later, John remembers why submissive discipline is marked as one of his civil rights rather than civil duties.

He gets the number to safety, but just barely. Harold has to come bail him out, which is humiliating, in addition to being dangerous enough to make John want to grit his teeth.

"You shouldn't have done that," he tells Harold, who's driving them back to the library.

Harold doesn't immediately reply, and John bites his lip. Christ. Now he's gone and done it: Harold will definitely enforce discipline now. No matter how little he liked protocol, no Dom would tolerate--

"Probably I shouldn't have," Harold says, resigned. "I would appreciate it, Mr. Reese, if you didn't force me to take such action in the future."

He drops John off at his place and drives off, leaving John staring at the exhaust.

The end of that day finds John in the local Public Enforcement office. "Offense?" the registration clerk asks him, boredom radiating off zir in waves.

"Talking back to a Dom." John's heart beats in his throat. "I don't have a form, though."

The clerk waves him through anyway, which is fortunate. If zie didn't, John would have had to find a random Dom to antagonize, which would have drawn attention. Harold probably wouldn't have liked that.

Talking back to a Dom is a minor offense, but a lot of admins take it personally, which gives them that vicious edge John needs. The one on duty seems positively gleeful to take it out on him.

"You look like you've had training," she says as he takes off his pants and bends over her desk. "Military?" John makes a noncommittal noise. He has a bunch of covers who could plausibly be using this office's services, but he doesn't want to make any decisions just yet that he can't go back on later.

More to the point, he'd rather not have to hold a specific character right this instance.

Thankfully, she doesn't dig. Instead she says, "You know it's up to my personal judgement how much you need to take to be really sorry, right? Well, my own judgement says you'd need a lot."

She doesn't wait for an answer before the first hit. John grunts. She's not wrong.

Public Enforcement is pretty constrained in the kind of punishment they can offer, but that's okay. John doesn't need anything fancy. Like this, bent over under a Domme who's just doing her job, he can let go.

Sometimes, allowing pain to matter can be a relief. Because it doesn't _really_ matter. She won't maim or permanently damage him. It's good to be able to cry out when she hits an already abused spot, to finally, hoarsely let out a quiet, "Please."

She hits him long and hard, unrelenting, until the first tears slide down his face. She keeps going after that, winding down. "That's it," she says after finishing, putting her paddle to the side. "Let it all out. Need anything?"

The words, the careful sympathy in them, are enough to instantly dry John's eyes, settle his face back into his accustomed mask. "I'm good."

"You have to stay here for twenty minutes," she tells him, and drapes a blanket around his shoulder on the way out. John doesn't argue: experience taught him it's not worth the effort.

"Be good," the Domme tells him on his way out. John nods at her mechanically. A beating isn't likely to improve his personal conduct: God knows if it could, he would've been a reformed citizen decades ago.

~~

He isn't expecting Harold to miss that he'd had a very thorough paddling, but he isn't expecting Harold to comment on it, either.

If he did, he wouldn't have expected Harold to turn sharply towards John as he enters the library and exclaim, "Dear God, have you been injured?"

It's kind of insulting, if John's honest. "Nothing I can't handle," he drawls. "We have a number?"

Harold ignores this blatant change of subject, getting to his feet and approaching John. "When did this happen? You seemed completely fine yesterday."

With dawning apprehension, John realizes that the expression on Harold's face is concern. "I was. Don't worry about it. The number?"

"We can discuss the number when you explain what happened," Harold says, mouth a tight line.

It takes an effort not to cross his arms, let them dangle at his sides with ease. "I thought that kind of thing was my business," John says with studied mildness.

Harold's eyes jerk up. "You mean-- oh. Oh." He swallows. "Of course. Forgive me." He limps back to his chair and clears his throat. "So. Our number is...."

John listens with half an ear, trying to process Harold's reaction. It honestly hadn't occurred to him that John would discipline himself. Did he think John considered yesterday's performance adequate? He can't have, given his lecture as he picked John up. Did he think John was some, some kind of irresponsible jerk who'd skip out on punishment if nobody was there to force him to go through it?

"Mr. Reese?" Harold looks determinedly at his screen, shoulders just slightly tenser than they should be. "Would working today be at all a problem? Because if so--"

"I said I'm fine," John snaps. Harold doesn't reprimand him, which stings worse than being answered with a slap to the face.

~~

The next time John fucks up that bad, Harold doesn't come save him. There's nothing Harold could have done, anyway: John's not in any danger, and their number is past help. John washes the blood off his hands and goes directly to Enforcement.

He comes prepared with a form signed by Mr. Wren, which John picked up last time he hung around Universal Heritage, part of the standard workplace policy. The clerk takes it without batting an eyelash and waves John through.

The Dom on duty this time doesn’t have the temperament or the upper body strength of last time’s admin. John ends up making the requisite noises out of boredom, wishing the whole thing will end already.

“Sorry,” the admin tells John. John is prepared to offer teary-eyed promises that he’ll be better when he sees the admin’s sheepish grin. “I’m kinda new here, this isn’t my thing… Tell you what, I have better equipment at home. Wanna give that a try? I’m better with my own gear, promise.”

The admin is younger and smaller than John, with an open expression and a nice smile. John considers and shrugs agreement.

It turns out that the admin is named Marcus, and he has a deep fondness for electricity. John’s experiences with electricity have usually been on the less savory side of the law, but not so traumatic that he won’t give it another shot. Especially when Marcus picks up a metal sound and gives John a hopeful smile. John’s always been a sucker for people with rarer kinks.

Marcus’s knowledge of current and electrode placement more than makes up for his lack of capability with floggers. The voltage he puts through the sound is much weaker than John expects - just painful enough to be acutely felt without forcing John to raise up his built-in defenses against interrogation.

The CIA taught John how to deal with being interrogated by a Dom. The trick wasn’t to stay unbroken: it was to break, over and over, each time showing a different layer, giving a different false cover. Usually by the third or fourth, his captors would believe that they had the truth.

Here, there is no cover to maintain. John lets pain mount and crack him apart, lets himself sag and shudder as current runs through him and tears trickle down his face.

Afterwards, John lies limply while Marcus picks the electrodes off, rubbing his hair. “You can stay over if you want,” Marcus says. “My bed or the guest bed, whatever works for you.”

For all of a minute, John considers it. Then he says, “Thanks. Got an early day tomorrow,” and makes his escape.

~~

Before John can even open his mouth to ask Harold about the number, Harold tightly says, “I have everything prepared that you’d need to press charges against Mr. Weldham. Of course, you’d have to do so under your Wiley identity, as that’s--”

John raises his hand. “Against who, now?”

“Marcus Weldham. The certified-admin you met yesterday.” Harold looks quietly furious. It’s not an expression John’s used to seeing on him, and he finds himself re-evaluating yesterday, trying to remember what Marcus could’ve done to piss Harold off this badly. “The charge is for breaking Enforcement regulation. Of course, if you want to make a case for coerced submission, you would be well within your rights, though I’m afraid you’d have to testify. Still, if you’d like that, we could find a way.”

John slowly blinks. “Harold,” he says, “what the fuck are you talking about?”

Harold has still not come down from whatever place of high righteousness and rage he’s sitting on. “Of course, to charge him with assault would be all but impossible, given the courts’ unfortunate anti-sub bias. But rest assured, if you would like to press that case, I will put any resources I can command behind you.”

For a moment John finds himself wondering if he’s misremembering things, or if Harold could have seen something misleading. “Finch, the guy is not even 5’9’’,” he says, grasping at straws. “Do you really think he could have made me do anything?”

Harold glares daggers at him. “How tall,” he asks, “was Kara Stanton?”

John doesn’t flinch, but he wants to. “Low blow,” he says, with forced lightness. “Honestly, Finch - look, nothing bad happened, okay? His methods were a little unorthodox, I grant, but they worked. What?” he says to the mulish set of Harold’s jaw. “You have a problem, come out and say it.”

“He made you cry,” Harold spits out, then abruptly looks horrified with himself.

John tells himself that he did nothing wrong, and it’s not his fault if Harold’s a prude. “Yeah, Finch,” he says, as evenly as he can manage. “That’s the idea.”

Harold comes hesitantly closer. “John.” His voice - there’s something there that John tries desperately not to want, wouldn’t have ever let himself if yesterday hadn’t left him still a little flayed open. Figuratively. “John, I realize that our failure yesterday--”

“My failure,” John says. “Not ours.” Finch gave good intel, as always. It was John who failed to follow up.

“Yesterday’s failure,” Finch continues doggedly, “rattled you badly. But please, you mustn’t beat yourself up.”

John tilts his head. “I _don’t_ beat myself up. That’s what Public Enforcement’s for.”

For a few precious moments, he thinks Finch might - he doesn’t even know: scream at him, maybe hit him. Then Harold deflates and turns around. “The forms are all prepared if you decide you need them,” he says, voice gone colorless. He starts talking about the number after that. John firmly tells himself he’s relieved.

~~

The third time, John is already at the library when the thought of punishment occurs to him. He doesn’t particularly feel like trudging across town to Enforcement. Also, Harold has just finished patching him up, and would probably not appreciate John getting banged up again.

John weighs his options. One possible explanation of Harold’s behavior could be simple jealousy. It might just be wishful thinking - scratch that, it probably is - but it’s worth a shot. Even if not, hey, Harold can’t really fault a guy for asking, can he?

“Hey,” John says, once Harold has laid down the first aid kit. “Do you wanna do it?”

Harold blinks up at him. “Pardon?”

And that blows _that_ motive right out of the water. Harold’s gaze is completely guileless, like he has no earthly clue what John wants from him. Figures. Oh, well: at least John knows he tried. “Nevermind,” he says, getting up to his feet with a wince. Christ, the new stitches sting.

Harold doesn’t let up this easily, though. “I’m afraid I don’t follow, Mr. Reese. What _it_ were you referring to?”

Alright, that’s a bit too far. “I get the point. You don’t want to,” John says tightly. “ _It_ ,” he stresses the word, “isn’t any of your business, and you don’t want it to be. Fine. No need to rub that in.”

For another millisecond, Harold seems baffled. Then, he’s horrified. “Mr. Reese,” he starts, and then, “John,” in a tone of voice that’s simply not fucking fair. “You can’t think I blame you for tonight’s misfortune.”

“I know you don’t,” John says gently. “I don’t blame myself either.” Well: rationally, he knows it wasn’t his fault. That should count for something. “That’s not what this is about.”

Harold seems helpless - no, he seems _tortured_ , wearing the same pained, panicked expression he did when he was trying to get a vest packed with explosives off John. “But why?” He seems to regret the words as soon as they cross his lips, but even so he carries on. “John, there’s nobody paying attention but me, and I don’t _care_.”

That _hits_ : like a punch to the solar plexus, or a whip-stroke to the balls. “I know,” John snarls. “Excuse me for pretending _somebody_ does.”

He leaves before he can say anything worse, leaving Harold behind him with his mouth open soundlessly, his hand futilely reaching out to John.

~~

John doesn’t go to Public Enforcement that night. He doesn’t go home, either, pacing the streets instead, furious with Harold and himself and the entire world.

In a street corner beside a bar, a Dom standing outside with a cigarette smirks at John. The Dom’s a big, mean looking sort, with an intelligent gleam in his eyes that means he’s more than just dumb muscle. The kind of guy who might be a risk, maybe, if John’s willing to let him be.

John thinks he might just be in that kind of mood.

He motions at the Dom’s cigarette. “Can I have one?” He hasn’t smoked in a long time, kicked the habit back in Basic. He still remembers the acrid scratch of the smoke down his throat, suddenly craves it.

The Dom tilts his head. His hand closes on John’s wrist. “Depends. What’re you trading for it?”

John opens his mouth, but before he can answer, his earpiece crackles to life.

“Mr. Reese,” Harold says, on the other end. “John. Please come home.”

John scowls, but Harold says, “Please,” again, voice trembling. John tightens his lips and says, “Fine,” moving back from the Dom.

The Dom doesn’t like that: his grip tightens on John’s wrist. John leaves the guy nursing three broken fingers and crying, which is kind of embarrassing from John’s perspective. He didn’t even shoot the guy’s knee off or anything.

~~

“I hurt you,” are the first words out of Harold’s mouth when John steps in. John’s about to reply with something airy and biting, but Harold sounds actually _frantic_. The words dry up in John’s mouth.

With a visible struggle, Harold regains something like his normal composure. "Mr. Reese," he says, "you do realize that I'm adynamic?"

John swallows. After a long moment, he says, "I do now."

Harold nods and inhales. "Given that," he says, mouth tightening in dogged determination, "it's entirely possible that I don't understand your perspective." The words sound almost rote, as though he'd repeated them to himself many times. "At the same time - even presuming you enjoy pain in some way I don't grasp, I can't help but see a growing reckless streak in your behavior."

Probably this is where John should say something to defend his actions. He stays quiet.

"Attending Public Enforcement..." Harold's mouth twists. "I admit that I have overreacted at first to a behavior that many subs engage in, to no lasting ill effect. Even following that admin-certified home could be understood, I suppose, as you judged him to be no threat. I do trust your instincts."

Something in John wants to melt at this faint hint of praise. He holds himself stone-faced.

"But tonight... John, what were you thinking? No," Harold says as John opens his mouth. "Don't answer that. It doesn't matter. Please correct me if I'm wrong, but I believe you thought I was rejecting you?"

John holds back his knee-jerk, snarled reply. He raises an eyebrow instead. "Was I wrong?" His voice is light, a challenge.

Harold looks aside, discomfited. "When I said I don't care," he says, voice a little too even, "I meant that whether or not you were punished made no difference to me."

John's flinch takes him by surprise, too sudden to suppress. "Thanks," he says. "I got that."

Harold carries on as though John said nothing. "I didn't mean I don't care that you need - whatever it is punishment gives you, or that you were suffering. About that, I care a great deal."

John wants to pace. At the same time, he feels too drained to move. "Harold. Get to the point."

"The point," Harold says, "is that if you could have what you need - what you _want_ \- from me, if I can give that, I would be very glad of it."

That's it, that's all John can stand. He gets to his feet and makes his way out. Harold doesn't ask him to stop, and John doesn't know if he's grateful or furious for it.

~~

He won't go to Public Enforcement. Certainly not using a form with Harold's signature on it, since PE are legally required to inform Harold if John uses it. Even without such a form, though, John's got a feeling Harold has an eye on him tonight.

Instead, John goes home -- goes to the apartment Harold bought him. Inside, for a little while, he paces.

Self-disciplining is one of the skills they teach in the Army, in addition to general self-discipline. It's supposed to be for emergency use only, when you're stranded alone: your CO is supposed to take care of all discipline otherwise. In the CIA he'd resorted to it, a few times, when Kara withheld punishment in the interest of making John learn independence. It generally left him feeling more ashamed, not less, but it meant the ache in his chest and the itch in the back of his mind let up a little.

Running laps is the first go-to for these situations. John doesn't want to leave the apartment, though. Too easy to let himself get into another reckless situation.

Knifeplay is one of the things the CIA taught him, but that's for a real emergency. Even Kara went a little quieter around him the one time he'd done it, as close as he'd ever seen her come to solicitous. John still doesn't understand why. Knives don't hurt much worse than crops or whips, and he knows enough not to cause himself lasting damage.

Still, he has to assume Harold is watching him, and he can't stand making Harold worry worse than he is.

Another form of strenuous physical activity is probably his best bet. John grimly drops into a set of push-ups.

At the hundred mark, he puts his forehead to the floor, letting his breath. It's _wrong_ , all wrong. The workout is a familiar strain, and endorphins rush through him, but it feels the same as drinking away his guilt: a good feeling he doesn't deserve.

In desperation, he reaches for fantasy. Lets himself be as shameless and depraved as he wants to be, disgustingly spoiled: imagines going to his knees for Harold, wrists tied behind his back to his ankles, straining up in attempt to get Harold's cock in his mouth.

Dom, sub, or adynamic, everyone likes blowjobs, right?

That feels closer to right. He puts himself in that position. He doesn't tie himself - he could, but that wouldn't help right now. He lets himself really stretch, feel the burn in the muscles. Something like a sob catches in his throat.

He would let Harold's cock rub against his face, mouth at it sloppily. Harold's cock would be hard, the skin soft against his cheek. John's getting hard himself. Harold would grab John's hair and pull--

No, Harold wouldn't. He'd run his fingers through it, gentle, he'd cradle John's jaw. He'd let John deep-throat his cock, feed it to John, watch him with avid, curious eyes.

Then the memory of Harold saying, "I don't care," comes back to him, and he collapses. He doesn't make a sound, so at least he has that going for him.

His earpiece crackles. John would groan if he weren't mortified. He knew Harold is watching. Some deep, dark part of him wonders if he wanted Harold to see.

"If you don't want me coming over," Harold says in his ear, "now's the time to say so."

John wants to crawl at Harold's feet and he wants Harold to stay far, far away from him. He closes his eyes and says nothing.

~~

When Harold arrives, John half expects another lecture, or at least an argument. There is none.

Part of this is probably that John is wiped. He can't really explain it. He's been in basic training, for fuck's sake. He's been denied punishment longer than he has today. Christ. He must be getting soft in his old age.

So John doesn't argue when Harold herds him to bed and pushes him firmly down, doesn't make a peep when Harold massages the aching muscles in John's neck.

Harold's hands are magic, which John has already guessed. Harold's got strength and dexterity in his fingers, and the intense concentration with which he breaks apart firewalls does the same to the knots in John's shoulders.

One unofficial lesson you learn as a soldier is how to sleep anywhere. The Army also tried teaching John the opposite lesson, that of staying awake everywhere, a lesson which Kara made sure to drive sharply into John. Even this isn't enough to keep John from succumbing to deep, dreamless sleep.

~~

When John wakes up, it's just past dawn, and Harold is slumped awkwardly in a chair beside the bed. John's up almost before he knows it, hustling Harold into the bed he'd just vacated. Harold stirs just long enough to make a vague protest which John summarily ignores.

After that, John discovers a deep, pressing need to do something other than look at Harold, who is warm and gently snoring in John's bed. He goes for a run, stopping at his favorite cafe to get a cup of coffee (and tea for Harold).

Harold's awake when John's back, reaching out for the cup of tea John's holding in a wordless plea. John can't help a smile: Harold just looks so _rumpled_ , glasses askew and hair springing in every possible direction.

Harold thanks him for the tea, and John says, “You didn’t have to do that.”

For a long moment, Harold blinks at him. Maybe springing this on him before he even finished waking up is a little cruel, but John’s past playing nice right now.

Just as he thinks Harold is going to ask for an explanation, Harold says, “I wanted to.”

“I thought you were adynamic,” John says, a little sharper than he means.

Harold sighs. “I am, yes, which means I have very little interest in arbitrary punishments pressed on you by a society that doesn’t value you as you deserve.” John opens his mouth to argue, and Harold stalls him with a raised hand. “What I do have an interest in is anything I can do to make you,” he hesitates, and then his mouth firms before he says, “happy. Including any kind of stimulation you feel necessary.”

John narrows his eyes at Harold. “What would you get out of that?”

“Your happiness,” Harold answers, in the short tone he uses when John pretends not to understand him on purpose.

Which would be nice, except John honestly doesn’t understand. He’d say so, but he thinks his expression makes it plain for once.

John’s not expecting Harold’s sudden, sweet smile. “I suppose turnabout is fair play,” he says, rubbing the back of his head. “Very well. John: I care about you a great deal. As more than a work partner. I take no particular enjoyment in either domination or submission, but whatever you need to be satisfied, I am willing to try.”

“Is that so?” John’s breath comes rapidly, shallow. His back muscles scream with tension. “You’re willing to try sticking a metal rod into my urethra and running electricity through it?”

There’s no missing the way Harold’s face pales at the description. His voice wobbles when he says, “Yes,” but he looks no less resolute for that.

“Yeah, no.” John drains his coffee cup, grateful for the way it scalds going down his throat. “I appreciate the attempt, Finch, but I’m not up for a pity scene.” He crumples the cardboard cup and tosses it down on the floor, turning to leave without picking it up.

He's stunned into stillness by Finch's voice, saying "Stay," with such a perfect ring of command that John's spine straightens involuntarily.

Then there are hands on his hips, and Harold's warmth against his back. "I'm not so oblivious as to think you'd accept pity from anyone," Harold says, "let alone me." Harold presses close, letting John feel desire in his touch and what might just be the beginning of an erection. "I believe we can find a mutually agreeable arrangement. You may enjoy the more intense forms of play, but it's possible you might be equally satisfied in much simpler ways."

John draws breath with some difficulty. When he speaks, his voice is hoarse. "You don't know that."

"I don't," Harold agrees. "But I think it's worth trying. Don't you?"

John's eyes close. "Harold." The word is a plea.

Harold's thumbs trace his hipbones. "Turn around," Harold says, voice gone tender in a way John has never heard before. He's facing Harold before he knows it, and Harold takes his face and positions the two of them for a kiss.

~~

John's lying on his back, blinking up at the ceiling. 

Harold traces a thumb across John's hipbone. "I hope you found that enjoyable?"

Mostly, if John's honest, he found it jarring. It was very easy to forget, most of the time, that Harold wasn't a Dom. He told John what he wanted, and John gave it to him. 

But then Harold would say something like, "Do you think you'd like this better if you pulled your leg up?" Or John would present his wrists up to be tied, only for Harold to blink at them and then shake his head, pressing a kiss to each of John's palms.

And the thing is, John knows - has known - Doms that might do either of those, but none of them was _Harold_. 

Harold manages to come across as more than one kind of Dom, depending on the ID he's affecting. Wren's fussy emphasis on detail, Patridge's strictness, Crane's dedication to perfection - none of them fit together with the man who bumped his nose into John's chin and then apologized for it.

"If there's anything you'd like for me to do differently," Harold begins, and John rolls over and kisses him silent.

Harold had held John down, pressed him into the bed, and John knew it was for his sake that Harold did it. He could feel it in Harold's touch, that this was no instinct but conscious choice, that Harold made a decision to take care of John in whatever way he could.

The way Harold kisses, too, is nothing like John knows, neither letting John do all the work nor seizing control. It's nice.

Eventually, John's on his back again, Harold lying on his side next to John. Harold runs his hand down John's middle, a slow, hypnotic touch. John's eyes slip shut.

Harold doesn't stop until he reaches John's cock, which he grips and gently rubs. John hisses at the overstimulation, hips jerking, but he nods when Harold asks him, "Alright?"

The touch splits the difference between _too much_ and _just right_ , making John's heart pound. Harold's got his full attention focused on John.

"And now," Harold says, "I must ask you to be very brave, and tell me what you need."

It's on the tip of John's tongue to make a glib reply, but Harold's got John's cock gripped sweet and slick, swiping a wet thumb over the tip. John makes an inarticulate noise instead.

"Tell me," Harold says, and for someone who isn't a Dom, he's very good at sounding like one.

John keeps his eyes closed. "I need punishment."

Another slow, torturous stroke to his cock. "What constitutes punishment?"

"Pain. Humiliation." For each word John says, Harold's hand moves exactly once. "Anything that can break me."

There is a pause, and John is suspended in dull, unsurprised misery. But then Harold hums thoughtfully and says, "Can I try something?"

"Go ahead," John says. It's not like he's got anything to lose.

Harold paces his touches until John's hard again, still sensitive but that just makes it good, the edge of pain cleanly delineating pleasure. Harold's rhythm picks up, sweeping John up in it.

Then, abruptly, stops and slows again.

John controls his breathing, slows down in an effort to move with Harold, to be good for him. 

"No," Harold says.

John's eyes open. Harold's lying next to him, looking at John like he's a badly behaving program. "I can see you giving up," Harold says, stern. "I know you can do better than that."

"I can," John says. His voice cracks: he takes a shuddering breath and says, "I can," again, steadier.

The next time Harold stops, John lets himself make a noise. Lets himself _want_ , fiercely, the orgasm that Harold's keeping just out of reach. 

On the third time, John lets, "Please," escape his lips, and Harold dips his head and kisses him.

It's easier after that, easy to let Harold take him to the edge, easy to sob when Harold won't let him cross it, easy to beg and arch and, finally, cry.

"That's it," Harold whispers in his ear. "That's it, give it up for me," and for Harold, John can, even though he's not hurting at all. 

Harold's pressing against his hip, hard again, and John rubs against him mindlessly. "Fuck me?" he asks, voice gone hoarse.

For a moment, Harold seems worried, but then his expression smooths and he says, "Of course."

He watches John's face like a hawk as he enters John: unlike Harold, whose pseudonyms were all prey animals, not predators. And even so, there they are.

John's still hard, but that's of no consequence. He's floating, now, on the delicious ache of Harold fucking him where John is still open and wet from before, on the burn in his oversensitive, denied cock, on Harold's avid attention. John can wait: John _will_ wait.

In this state, he can't really register surprise. And yet, he's not expecting the way Harold's hand wraps around his cock, Harold's quiet, "I'd like to feel you come around me, now."

John, of course, obeys.

~~

Whatever John may think of Harold's Dom-act in bed, Harold has aftercare down pat. He runs his hands over John's skin, whispering reassurances and compliments, and waits until John's somewhat settled before bringing a wet cloth to clean both of them up.

After, Harold draws the covers over them and lies on his side, half draped over John. 

The hairs on John's nape prickle. His neck aches; he can feel a phantom presence there, the sense-echo of a collar nobody ever put on him. "I won't go to Public Enforcement next time," he says. "Or be reckless."

"I'm glad," Harold says simply. 

John's nearly asleep when Harold says, abruptly, "You realize that many people don't realize that being adynamic is possible?"

The sheets rustle as John shifts, thinking. "You were raised as a sub," he says, putting things together.

"I grew up thinking that the world was mad," Harold says. "I'm still not fully convinced I was wrong, but I have since realized that many people simply experience the trappings of submission differently than I did."

"I'll say." Even trying to imagine Harold being disciplined hurts John's brain. 

"In particular," Harold says, "such matters as regular discipline, and collars."

Against John's volition, his head turns sharply, until he's facing Harold.

Harold carries on as if he didn't notice, but his eyes are on John, and John's willing to bet Harold knows exactly what John's thinking. "I'll admit I thought subs who professed to crave punishment, or being collared, were brainwashed," he says. "It appears I was wrong about one of these things, at least."

Dizzy as he feels, John's voice still comes out mild and light. "I might be brainwashed," he says. "I did go through a lot of conditioning."

Harold's eyes on him are sad and knowing. "You are what you are." He rests his hand on John's throat, and the weight of his palm makes John's eyelids flutter. "And I love you as such. If a declaration of ownership would be an easier way for you to accept this, I'm perfectly willing to issue one."

Something inside John, the dumb animal part that can't allow anything good to happen to him, rears up. "And what happens when you get mad at me for real?" 

Harold frowns. "I beg your pardon?" He really doesn't seem to have any idea what John is upset about, which is making it worse.

But then Harold's hand sneaks out, captures John's, raises it to Harold's mouth to be kissed once more. 

"If I get mad," Harold says, "then I suppose we'll argue, or fight, as people must. And then, if you need anything from me, you can ask, and I'll give it to you to the best of my ability."

"Harold," John says, helpless.

Harold's other hand tightens around John's neck, almost imperceptibly, but his eyes are on John's face, gauging reaction. "I may not be the ideal partner for you," he says, with an anxious undercurrent. "But I promise, John, I will try my hardest to give you what you want, as you deserve. I know I still have a lot to learn--"

Whatever else Harold has to say is silenced when John rolls them over, kissing Harold ferociously. "Don't you tell me," John says, low and silky, "what's _ideal_ for me and what isn't."

It's an act calculated to provoke a response, but Harold just looks dazed, raising a hand to John's face. "I suppose you'd know better than I."

"Yes," John says, shuddering happily when Harold's hand re-settles itself on the back of his neck, gripping hard and possessive. "I do."


End file.
